


Evening Birds in the Country

by hyacinth_sky747



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-19 23:01:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1487344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyacinth_sky747/pseuds/hyacinth_sky747
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has a breaking point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evening Birds in the Country

Sherlock was chuffed. The case was solved. John was waiting outside. They’d exchange some quips about how brilliant he, Sherlock, was and find some place to eat in this stupid village. Sherlock hoped the pub served oysters. He was in the mood for oysters.

He walked out of the police station but John was not immediately on hand. No matter. He was probably looking for oysters. John had a pleasing way of anticipating Sherlock’s needs and wants. He was a rock, was John. Sherlock was pleased to have such a rock. He was pretty much pleased with whole of the world just then. It was a joyous, foggy evening and Sherlock was clear and brilliant in it. Though, he must admit, he could feel the post-case fatigue and hunger setting in. Where the hell was John? 

John would head in the direction of the sea. Humans are drawn to water. Sherlock headed that way too, pulling up the collar of his coat against the damp. He was right. There was a rail that separated the pavement from the sheer drop to the sea and John was leaning on it. His hair had curled in the mist. It was over-long, his hair. John hadn’t been seeing to it properly. But the case had probably snapped him out of his funk. 

Sherlock could hear his footsteps echoing loudly on the cobble-stoned street. It was very still. A muffle of fog hung over everything. Sherlock pulled at his coat collar. For a moment he felt that he couldn’t draw a full breath. Why? Too humid? Ridiculous. It was the set of John’s shoulders, the way his body bent and tensed over the rail to the sea. A harsh sound emitted from him in the stillness of the evening. Sherlock could not help but respond to that sound.

“John?”

His voice sounded overloud in the quiet quay. John didn’t turn at Sherlock’s voice. His head bowed further forward and bobbed up again. A flutter of birds took off from a nearby tree in a frown of perturbment. Sherlock waited for their ruckus to subside before he moved again. 

“John,” he raised his hand to touch John’s shoulder when he was still absurdly far away from him. His fingers ached to touch John. 

“John,” the relief of touching John’s wet coat let Sherlock breathe again. 

“What’s wrong?” 

John was hanging his head. He was refusing to look at Sherlock but there was no doubt that he was crying. Sherlock had never seen John cry. John didn’t cry. John laughed at danger, got off on it, loved it. 

John heaved two mighty breaths and looked up at Sherlock with red eyes.

“I can’t.”

His words didn’t make any audible sounds. John was struggling with his breathing more than Sherlock was, but his lips and the tragedy mask of his face made his meaning clear. 

Sherlock’s hand hadn’t left John’s shoulder and he squeezed it now. 

“What?” Sherlock asked.

John shook his head vigorously and then clamped a hand tightly over the one Sherlock had on his shoulder. 

“I can’t,” he said again. This time his voice was audible though strange and muffled.

“I want oysters on the half shell. Probably will have to wait until we get back to London. Fish and chips at the pub will do for now.” 

John’s whole body froze. 

“Doesn’t it ever affect you? We found a five-year-old’s body in a suitcase.”

Oh. That is what it took to break John. Murdered children. But wait, hadn’t they dealt with a murdered child before…

“His brother,” John said. “What the fuck is going to become of that kid? The father might as well have murdered both of them.” 

Broken children then. Death had the veneer of peace at least. Trust John to find the one thing to grieve over. Sherlock didn’t know what to say. That was okay though because John didn’t want words. He shoved Sherlock’s hand from his shoulder and for a few seconds Sherlock floundered, wondering if John would run, or burst into loud sobs, or hit him. 

John, being flawed and surprising did none of those things. He shoved Sherlock hard in the chest and then grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and pulled him forward. John buried his face in Sherlock’s coat and let out a frustrated, angry yell. Then he just stayed there while Sherlock kept floundering. 

“Put your arms around me. Say nice things.” 

Sherlock put his arms around John. He liked that. He couldn’t think of the right nice things to say. 

“Let’s catch the late train back to London and have oysters. We could be at Baker Street by two in the morning.” 

It must have been the right thing to say after all because John sniffed and pulled away and straightened his face.

“Let’s go,” he said.

But he held Sherlock’s hand all the way to the train station as if Sherlock was the one who was lost and had lost himself entirely. 

~*~

 _He never came back._ There are words and then the feel of damp leaves under his finger tips as he brushes them off the suitcase. _He never came back._ And then Sherlock is always startled awake as the leaves give way to reveal the remains of a human’s hand. A child’s hand. 

John is in the bed beside him. 

“You were yelling. You’re sweating.”

John limps into the bathroom while Sherlock tries to rearrange his thoughts. He comes back with a thermometer. 

“I’m fine, John.”

“Then you won’t mind proving it.” John holds out the thermometer but Sherlock doesn’t take it. 

“I don’t have a fever.”

“No,” Jon concedes. “You just haven’t pissed in two days.” 

Sherlock can feel himself boggling at John. 

“You’re not the only one who notices things. I’m a doctor.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything. He just looks at his hands twisting the bed sheets together. John waits a moment and then nods towards the bathroom.

“Try now,” he says.

Sherlock rises with all the dignity he can muster which isn’t much given the state of his aching bladder and enters the bathroom. He stands for what seems an age, willing himself to urinate. He runs the tap and thinks of waterfalls but nothing comes despite the swell of desperation inside him. 

He finally gives up and opens the door. 

John is standing outside with a concerned and all-business frown about him. 

“You’ll need a catheter. Here, or do you want to see a doctor? Someone else?”

Sherlock weighs these options in his mind for a moment.

“Here,” he says and then thinks that maybe John wouldn’t want to. “If you…”

John is all brisk. “I’ll go get supplies. Shower. I’ll be as quick as I can.” 

~*~

John heads straight for the whiskey when he’s done, leaves Sherlock moaning in an ecstasy of relief on the bathroom floor. When he comes back his hands are still unsteady. They were sure all the way through the procedure. The trembling had only started when he’d finished his task. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock says. He feels wrung out. He realizes his pants are still pulled down around his ankles and he’s all exposed but it doesn’t seem to matter. John’s already seen everything . Touched everything. 

Sherlock kicks off his pants. 

“I need another shower.”

“Yes,” John says. He doesn’t move though.

Sherlock takes a deep breath. “If you want to…Do you want to…?” Fuck it. He spreads his legs, trails his fingers along his naked thigh. “Time for action, John , if you’re going to…just come here.”

John suddenly takes a deep and ragged breath in and then for two beautiful seconds he is crossing the room and dropping to his knees between Sherlock’s spread thighs and then they are kissing and it is messy and lewd and John’s hand is between Sherlock’s legs and cupping his balls. 

Sherlock doesn’t fully comprehend the fierceness of his desire until later when he sees the holes he left in John’s clothes when he tore them off him. He doesn’t fully understand his capacity for tenderness until he feels John shiver through the sweetest orgasm underneath him. Next time he’s going to remember to put his fingertips on the tips of John’s eyelashes as he flutters through it. 

~*~

“So, your penis is working fine then,” John says. Sherlock has tucked him under one arm and dragged them both into his bed. John is staying tucked under his arm and between his legs for the foreseeable future if he has any say in the matter. 

“It seems to have made a full recovery. I’m worried about relapses though,” Sherlock tacks this last bit on for insurance. 

“Next time tell me when you can’t pee,” John says.

“Next time tell me when you have human emotions. You don’t have to cry into the sea or shove me around. You can just tell me that you need a hug.”

“Okay,” John says but he says it sleepily and then he trails his tongue around Sherlock’s nipple. “I’m sure Lestrade won’t bat an eye at that, us hugging it out at crime scenes.” 

Sherlock’s breath hitches. “We could do it after. We can have a code that you need a hug after.”

“Or we could have a blow job code.”

Sherlock squirms and quits playing with John’s hair to look down at what John is doing with his tongue.

“You’re obscene. “

John makes a sort grunt that Sherlock guesses is code for _yes and I don’t care_. 

Sherlock decides he can live with a John who sometimes needs hugs and is often obscene.


End file.
